Letters to Natara
by Vivere Sine Timore
Summary: Mal wrote twelve letters to Natara, one for each month of the year. He knew she would never read them, but he wrote to her anyway. Maybe, in her own way, she knew what he said in those letters.
1. White Dress

**Okay, so I know that I said that I was done writing until next summer. But the thing is... it's way too much fun. So while the stories will be few and far between, hopefully I'll be able to post when I have some free time.**

**Anyways, I got the idea for this story from a few different places. It's a lot different from my other stories, but I think this will be a fun challenge. Please tell me what you think!**

* * *

><p>Dear Natara,<p>

You wore a white dress today. I swear you were the most breathtaking thing I've ever seen in my entire life. You looked so perfect and beautiful that I wanted nothing more than to take your hands in mine and confess everything. My devotion to you. My love for everything you are, everything you stand for. I barely stopped myself.

When I saw you in that dress, to say I was speechless would be the understatement of the century. I couldn't form a coherent thought, let alone put words together to form a sentence. I'd only ever seen you in a dress once before, at the charity event we were semi-undercover for. I had thought you looked beautiful in that red gown, but compared to your beauty today... you might as well have been a Halloween witch. No offense.

I couldn't help but think of a wedding dress. I envisioned a wedding. Our wedding, actually, but that's not fair. I know it's arrogant, thinking that you would ever look at me romantically at all, never mind agree to become Mrs. Fallon. Still, it was the first thing I thought of. You looked so radiant and beautiful like every bride should, except you were only getting married in my imagination.

You should have seen the church, Natara. It was packed, filled to the brim with people who care about you. People were crammed into pews and forced to stand on the sides. Some even had to stand outside the doors, and were craning their necks to try and catch a glimpse. Everyone from the station was there, and your mother was crying. I'm pretty sure I even saw your dad sitting next to your mom and Neha. And of course you were the focal point for everyone's attention, especially mine, in that flawless white dress.

Is it wrong for me to say that I was jealous when they handed your flag to your mother? Is it wrong for me to wish that they had handed it to me instead? If I had been the one that your flag was handed to, that would have meant that we were married. Am I wrong for wishing that? I think I am, especially since I'm the reason today happened in the first place.

They got the bastard who did this to you. I hope you know that. He tried to run, but it was an idiotic move. It was a crime scene and there were cops all over the place, the fatal flaw in his plan. They found him while I held you, and then when they took you away I charged over to him and you know what I did. I punched him so hard that I knocked him out. I broke my hand, too. It wasn't enough, though. I wanted him to suffer as you had suffered. Only there would be no comfort for him in the arms of his partner.

Kai was the one who stopped me, of all people. He was the one who brought me back. He told me there was still hope for you. I wish he had been right.

I remember the time at the hospital, when you were in surgery. Everyone was there. Captain Yeong, Ken, Amy, Kai, Neha, your mom, and a ton of other people. I was led by an intern to a room to clean myself up. She left almost immediately, and Amy found me about twenty minutes later, waving my arms around in front of the sink, trying to turn it on. Apparently you step on a button to turn the water on.

There was so much blood on my hands, but I didn't want to wash it off. I could only stand there, staring at my hands covered in your blood. A few hours before, it had been running through your veins. What if it was the last living part of you I ever saw? I cried as I watched the rose-colored water circle the drain.

I remember when I got to say goodbye to you privately. I got to hold you, but you were cold. You were cold even as my hot tears fell on your face. Even as I pressed my face against your neck. You looked so calm and serene that, if not for the absence of your chest rising and falling, I could have believed you were sleeping.

People keep telling me that it was just your time, but they're wrong. They weren't there. They don't know what happened. They didn't see you jump in front of me. I did. I saw you take the bullet that was meant for me. I watched you crumple back into me. I fell with you, and I found out later that people thought I had been shot too.

Why did you do it? How did you know? I've gone over it and over it in my mind, and I know that I saw you start to leap in my direction a split second before the shot. How did you know what was going to happen?

Why did you leave me here alone?

I'm being arrogant again. As far as I know I was your partner and your friend, in your eyes. Nothing more and, thankfully, nothing less. I could have told you before, but I didn't. I had at least a thousand opportunities. And yet I didn't take advantage of them.

So, keeping our tradition of horrible timing, I guess I'll tell you now.

I love you, Natara Williams. I love you, I love you, I love you. I love you with all my heart and all my being. I love you and I miss you. But it's more than that. I miss the life you missed out on, the life we never got to build together and now the life we never will. You probably think I'm being ridiculous, and I wouldn't blame you. It's not like I ever had you, to be able to miss you properly. But in a way I think that's worse. I don't get to have memories of our time as a couple, because we never had that time to begin with.

That's my biggest regret. I never told you while I could. I was a coward, and now it's too late. I had a million chances to tell you everything. I wasted so much time. I could have told you. I should have told you. I should have told you when we were looking for your sister. When we rescued you from the Collins mansion. When we were in the woods. After Tasha died. That night we talked about everything, the night before Zero turned himself in.

I'm telling you now. I know it's not enough, but it's all I have.

Love you always

Mal


	2. Stages of Grief

**It's official. I'm a serial killer of fictional characters. Out of the twenty stories I've written so far, including this one, seven of them have at least one person who was killed off. Most of those have more than one who was killed off.**

**Hehe, whoops.**

* * *

><p>Dear Natara,<p>

They say that there are five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Most people go through them when they lose a loved one. In my opinion, the ones who don't are either robots or they simply shut down and stop living.

At least I know I'm not a robot or someone who stops living.

I skipped the first stage and went straight to anger. I think that was evidenced by my punching Kale Higgins out. I learned his name when they put me in an interrogating room with him. I was being supervised, of course, but only to make sure that I didn't do anything incredibly stupid. He was just sitting there, cool as a cucumber. It was as if he hadn't just murdered you.

I told him everything about you. Your age, your family, you dreams and aspirations. It didn't affect him in the least. I had hoped for at least a bit of remorse, but do you know what he said? He told me, "That bullet was meant to end your life, Detective, not hers. But the way I see it, this punishment is much better. If I had shot you, you would have died. End of story. But she died for you instead, and I know that it's tearing you up inside. You're being tortured by the fact that you couldn't save her, and the fact that it's all your fault she's dead. So, how does it feel, Detective? How does it feel to know that the woman you truly loved is dead because of you?"

I punched him again. I broke his nose, but this time I didn't break my hand, at least. I was on suspension for two weeks, but I took a leave of absence as soon as I was allowed back.

Bargaining was the next one. I kept asking God for one more day with you, one more hour. Even one more minute would be fine. I know that as soon as our time was up I would be asking God for more time, but for now I just want to see you again. I want to see you alive and happy and whole.

Did you know they asked me to do your eulogy? I think I forgot to tell you that in my last letter. My legs shook while I stood up in front of everyone. I kept looking to my side, expecting to see you there. And in a way I guess you were, just not the way I wanted you to be. I wanted you to be there, holding my hand, telling me that everything would be all right. But you weren't. You were in a casket.

Did you hear what I said? I hope you did. I'll put it in here just in case you didn't.

_When you love someone, it's like a cord holds you together. It keeps you balanced, as if you're on opposite ends of a seesaw. Maybe if you're really lucky you figure out how to keep the balance and meet in the middle. But if, suddenly, there is nothing on the other end, you lose your balance. You fall into nothingness, head first, and you don't care because maybe, just maybe, the person you love might be waiting down there for you._

_I've been told a couple of times that I have an amazing way with words. In my opinion, it's a spur of the moment thing, something that just happens. And then, when the really count, I struggle to find them. This time, however, I'm justified._

_If asked how to describe her in only a few words, I would only be able to say Natara Williams, because there aren't words to sum up Natara. There are no adjectives that are able to describe her passion, her dedication and her determination. She is an amazing woman. The very best. And I know that everyone says that about everyone who dies, but this time it's true._

_I was fortunate enough to work with Natara for four years. She taught me more in those years than I could've learned in a lifetime from anyone else. She's like no one else I've ever met, and no one I will ever meet again. Her beauty was already overwhelming, but her colossal heart was what blew me away. Some people care only to be a nice person, someone other people will think is polite. Natara truly cared and did everything in her power to bring closure to the loved ones of every victim._

_I fell in love with her._

_We bickered a lot. Actually, we fought most of the time. I teased her and she frustrated me, I pissed her off and she punched me. More often than not, you could hear us disagreeing over how to interrogate a suspect, or even squabbling over who got to shake someone down. But it was those small moments that joined together to form the bricks that built up our relationship._

_She made me into the man I am today. She showed me what life is truly about and taught me to treasure every moment you had with everyone who was important to you. Natara Williams is my friend, my partner, my inspiration, my family, my light at the end of the tunnel and the love of my life. None of us will ever forget her. We will always hold her memory close to our hearts. And then maybe, hopefully, someday, we'll meet her again._

After that I seemed to backtrack and went into denial. I still bought you coffee in the mornings; I kept turning around to ask your opinion on something. There was one day where I even tried to toss you a set of keys to a squad car, and barely managed to stop myself from tossing them into Ken's face.

I went to your apartment a few days after we buried you. A family of three lives there, now. I'm sure they must have thought that I was kind of creepy, but I went up and introduced myself. I told them all about you until they kicked me out. They have a four-year-old daughter. She's got jet-black hair and light brown eyes and a smile that lights up a room.

Does that sound familiar?

The fourth stage is depression. Depression is a strange thing. It sneaks up on you slowly, so gradually that you don't see it until it's too late and you're too deep. I feel it most often at night, when I go home to an empty apartment and realize that I don't have anyone to live for anymore.

Every time I walk into a room, now, I look around and count all the different ways I can kill myself using the objects in the room. I think my record was twenty-three ways in the kitchen. The runner-up is the living room with nineteen, but that's only because that's where I keep my gun at night.

There was one night, about nine days after your funeral, when I came home after informing Captain Yeong that I was taking an indefinite leave of absence. I sat there on the couch watching TV. Did you know they were still talking about your death? Did you hear what they said? They said that it was a shame that you died, that it was such a waste. Your funeral was the last thing I'd wanted to hear about, so I'd switched the TV off and crossed the room to get my gun.

I'm not sure how long I sat on the sofa with the barrel pressed against my temple. It must have been a long time, judging by the imprints it left on my skin. I had my gun in my right hand and a letter in my left. It only had two words on it. _I'm sorry_. That's what it said.

Did you know it only takes about 10-20 muscles to pull a trigger? It only takes about three pounds of pressure for a bullet to leave the barrel of a gun and potentially kill someone. Sometimes it feels like a lot less. It sure did on that night. I remember I caught sight of the clock. It was 11:59. I kept my eyes trained on the clock, waiting for the numbers to change.

That minute seemed to stretch on for eternity as time slowed to a crawl. The red numbers on its face changed to show 12:00, and I knew it was time. My finger tensed on the trigger as I hesitated for a second, and then I squeezed. The gun clicked as the safety prevented the bullet from exiting, and I set my gun down on the coffee table, went into my room and sprawled across my bed.

Just for the record, I wasn't trying to kill myself. I knew the safety was on because I had deliberately left it on. It was only to assure myself that I would be able to do it if it ever came to that point.

The fifth stage is acceptance. I don't think I'll ever reach that stage. Maybe to some degree I'll reach it. Eventually I might accept that you're not going to be beside me anymore. But I don't think I'll ever be able to fully accept the fact that I'll never see your smile again, never hear you laugh at me.

I promise I'll go back to work eventually. I owe it to you and to all the other victims of bastards like Kale Higgins. I'll catch them and I'll make sure they stay behind bars for the remainder of their lives. It's the least I can do. And who knows? Maybe during my quest of sorts to keep the city safe I'll end up joining you, wherever you are.

Love you always

Mal


	3. Maybe

Dear Natara,

Summer's ending. You can feel it in the air, a subtle change in the temperature and scent of the air. I know you loved autumn. You said that spring was too perfect. Winter was too cold. Summer was everyone's favorite season, and it was too hot. But autumn... autumn was beautiful. It was so raw and unscripted. Leaves change colors and fall, not to mention the fashion is amazing, you told me. Everything's changing, but it's all out of sync, just like the world. Just like our lives.

They read your will today. It was weird. It made everything seem so... final. I was surprised when I was informed that I was mentioned in your will. I kept wondering what you could have possibly left for me. You can probably imagine my surprise when I found out it was a key and a set of instructions of what to do.

When I finally found what you'd left for me, I was confused. It was as if you knew what was going to happen, even four years ago in 2011, but I know that's not true. My biggest question about it is why? Why did you write it in the first place? Why didn't you tell me?

I'll tape your letter at the bottom of this. That way I can't lose it. I think I might keep the key, too.

There's not much more for me to say. Ken came by the other day, claiming it was to make sure I was still alive. I almost broke down when he said that. I remembered that the last time I took a leave of absence you came to find me. You said it was to make sure I was still alive, seeing as I wouldn't answer the phone or return your texts and calls.

Everything makes me miss you even more. Simple acts that I see people do, things someone says, even some songs on the radio. All the love songs make sense, now. I remember once you told me that you would know you were in love when all the songs make sense.

I'm sitting here at the window with a thin blanket draped around my shoulders, staring at nothing really. There are two coffees on the table next to me, one for you and one for me. I realize I must look pathetic to someone on the outside, and not just the outside of my apartment. I've barely left my house since the funeral, and I'm pretty sure I look like a caveman at this point.

They'd probably scoff at me and remind me that we weren't even a couple. They'd say to me, "Look at yourself, man. You're destroying your relationships and your life over a woman who never told you she loved you. Pull yourself together and get out there!"

But the thing is, it doesn't matter about the fact that you didn't say anything. You didn't have to love me. The thing that matters is the fact that _I _loved _you_. You ruined me for every other woman out there.

I'm empty, Natara. Everything's gone. Everything. My desire to do anything. My appreciation for the people around me. My hope for the world. I'd rather be hurting than feel like this. But that's exactly what I can't do. Feel.

I want to hurt. I want to cry. I want to feel hatred for Higgins. I want to scream and sob and throw things around in a blind rage. I want to do all those things, but I cant. I can't feel anything, Natara. I could just sit here until the end of time. Just sit and stare all day.

Maybe I'll go back to work someday. It might not be in San Francisco. There are too many memories. Maybe I'll transfer somewhere far away, like New York or Chicago or maybe even Miami. Maybe I'll stop feeling numb. Maybe someday I'll feel rage and sadness and maybe even happiness too. Maybe someday I'll find the incentive to get up and _do_ something with my day.

Maybe.

Love you always

Mal

* * *

><p><em>Sunday, September 18, 2011<em>

_Dear Mal,_

_If you're reading this, then I guess we both know what must have happened. Maybe you'll never find this, or maybe you will. Maybe it'll be seventy years in the future when you get this, or maybe it'll be just a few months. Either way, I'll be dead and you'll still be alive._

_I know you'll be beating yourself up over my death. Since I won't be there to say it in person, I'll have to say it here. Please, please don't do anything stupid, okay? My death is not your fault, unless you're the one who killed me. In which case, know that I'll be coming back as a ghost to haunt your sorry ass. (Sorry. That was a bad attempt at a joke.)_

_I really hope you don't get this until we're both old and gray. Maybe we'll even be married by then, who knows? And trust me, I know that you want that to happen too. Creepy mind-reading profiler, remember?_

_But just in case we never got there and I never got to say this out loud, I want you to know that I loved you too. I loved you with every fiber of my being. I would rather die than see you get hurt. I would die in your place if that's what it takes._

_So the million-dollar question is, why am I writing it in this letter? Why aren't I telling you this to your face? Well, that's because I'm a coward. As of right now, I'm scared to be with you, and part of that is because of Shawn. I want to be with you so badly, but I'm not ready yet and I don't want to lead you on. I often get the feeling that no matter what I choose, it's not fair to either one of us. If I take the risk and tell you, you'll be happy, but I most likely won't be, not completely. And if I just stand back and keep my mouth shut, we're both unhappy._

_Funny how we can never win, right?_

_Anyway, you just pulled up to my apartment and are now honking the horn at me. Maybe when you get this, you'll remember this exact moment. Maybe, looking back, you'll wish you'd realized what I'm doing, and dammit, Mal, I'm coming. Just give me a second. Why must you always be so impatient?_

_Sorry, another bad joke. I should just stop._

_Before I go and meet the you from 2011 outside, I just want to say one more time that I love you. I love you, I adore you, I can't live without you. Never forget that._

_Love you forever and always with all my heart_

_Natara_


	4. Pictures of Memories

Dear Natara,

Today was your birthday. You would have turned thirty-six today. Not too many people knew that, much to my surprise. Only Amy, Kai and Captain Yeong knew.

Captain Yeong was very understanding and allowed me the day off. I had planned on spending the day curled up on the couch like I had during the weeks after your death. God, those words are still hard to write. Your death. Even after almost four months, it's hard to admit that you're not here.

Neha showed up at my apartment today with a cake, a picture frame and a photo album. I'm still not sure how she knew where I lived. Either way, she and I had a nice time together. The picture frame held a picture of you in Mexico, from the last time you took Neha there. It was the last photo that Neha took there, the last photo ever taken of you.

It was a close up of you, showing only from the tops of your shoulders and up. You were looking off at something in the distance, your eyes sparkling and a small smile on your lips. The sun was setting the background and turned the sky a striking shade of pink and purple. The fading sunlight was reflecting off your hair and the ocean, and I could tell you were leaning back on your arms in the sand.

You were beautiful.

We sang happy birthday to that photo, and I felt my heart constrict when I remembered you couldn't blow the candles out and make a wish. We blew them out for you, but we weren't sure what you would wish for.

She showed me the photo album she had. It was dedicated entirely to you, with one photo from each birthday you celebrated. The tears started to fall at the first picture of you all scrunched up and looking angrier than I'd ever seen you, barely twenty minutes old. You were beautiful even then.

We flicked through the pictures and you grew up right in front of my eyes. I stopped her at a picture of you when you turned seven. You were crouched on the floor as you destroyed the wrapping paper covering a present. Your face was filled with such joy that I wondered what the gift was. In that picture, your father is watching you with such utter adoration.

I'd always wondered why you never spoke about your father. At first I thought maybe he'd died, or maybe he'd run off when you were little. I rationalized that it would explain why you and your sister had different last names. When I found out that it had been because of the fact that you decided to go into law enforcement, I was shocked. It seemed so trivial. When he showed up to your funeral, I'd been outraged at first. In retrospect, I realize that no matter the reason you hadn't spoken in years, you were still his daughter and you were still dead.

The next picture I lingered on was of you at eleven. You were just entering that awkward adolescent phase where your arms and legs and feet were too long for your body. You were curled in on yourself, hugging your knees to you chest and glaring at the person taking your picture. You looked pissed, as if having your picture taken was worse than having bamboo splinters shoved under your nails. In spite of that, your eyes sparkled with love for the person behind the camera.

Neha showed up in your fourteenth birthday photo. She was just about a year old, and the two of you were at a park somewhere. You had her cuddled close to you, pressing your face against hers as she laughed joyfully. Your hair was so short; I never knew you'd ever cut it that short. I also never knew you had braces, but there they were, glinting in the sunlight.

The one of you at seventeen made my heart stop. You'd grown out of that awkward stage and the braces had come off by then. You'd lost your puppy fat and grown into your adult face, and the first thing I noticed was your cheekbones.

You grew more and more beautiful each year. And then you were twenty-five, and the light in your eyes was gone. The picture didn't look like the others, and I wouldn't have known it was your birthday if that hadn't been the purpose of the album. You were slumped in the chair of a kitchen, staring at your cake. Every year before that, I could tell that the cake had been homemade, but this one was blatantly store-bought. I'd never known someone to look at a cake with such abject hatred, but if looks could kill that cake would be splattered all over the walls.

Neha told me that your dad had always baked the cakes on birthdays, even his own. She said that they were amazing and that you used to say that they tasted like all the best things in the world baked into a cake, just for you. She also told me that the picture had been taken just after your falling-out with your father, and that he'd refused to bake you a cake.

Your thirty-fifth birthday was the most painful for a number of reasons, one being the fact that I knew it was your last. You looked so happy and radiant. It was a candid picture, the very best kind. You were sitting at your desk at the station, and you could see Amy smashing a piece of cake in Kai's face to the side of the picture. You were watching them, your smile wider than I'd ever seen it. My arm was slung casually around your shoulders and you were leaning your head against my shoulder as we laughed.

I remember that day, in perfect clarity. We'd decided to throw you a surprise birthday party at the station that year. I'm glad we did. I'm glad we made you last birthday special, even if we didn't know it was your last.

Neha let me have the photo album and the picture of you in Mexico. I tried to give them back, saying that it wasn't just her decision to make to give them to me. She insisted that it was. She said that your father's too busy drowning himself in a bottle and your mother put all of your stuff away in the attic. Neha said that she's the only one who wants to remember that you were alive once, that you ever existed. She told me that she would always have the memories of you; the least she could do was give me the pictures.

I'll treasure that book for the rest of my life. I'll never get rid of it or put it away or let any damage come to it. I'll keep it safe, but it hurts to look at it. It's just too empty. There should be at least sixty more pictures in there. It hurts knowing that there won't be any more pictures to add to it. But it's a good kind of pain. The kind of pain that says that something's healing inside me.

Happy birthday, sweetheart.

Love you always

Mal


	5. Milestones

Dear Natara,

It's funny how people mark their lives with milestones. We count birthdays and keep track of when major events happen in our lives. First steps. First words. The first time we lose a tooth. The first time we ride a bike by ourselves. The first day of school. Sweet Sixteens. Our 18th and 21st birthdays. First anniversaries.

I've noticed that we keep track of a lot of firsts. We remember some of them so clearly that if we close our eyes and focus on the memory, it's as if we're watching our own personal movie of our lives. But why do we remember them so well? Why do we want to? Why do we brand them as important, more important than our other memories?

I'm not sure when I noticed I was doing it. One day I just realized that I had been counting my own milestones. The first week I survived after your death. The first month. The first Halloween without you. The first Thanksgiving.

I remember how you would invite me over to your apartment on the holidays. You said that no one should be alone on them. Do you remember the time we tried to bake cookies for Valentine's Day? We ended up having a massive food fight right there in your kitchen. You had so much flour in your hair, Natara. There were also a few remnants of eggs and I think maybe even a few clumps of dough. That was the most fun I'd had in a while.

I remember your last Christmas, too. We lounged around on your sofa, sipping eggnog and watching A Christmas Carol. There was a fire going in the fireplace and your Christmas tree was all lit up.

The fire kept flickering, casting shadows on your face. You looked so beautiful in the firelight, almost ethereal. I remember thinking that someone so magnificently breathtaking couldn't possibly come from this world.

I almost kissed you that night, Natara. I came so close. Do you remember it too? It happened right as we were saying goodnight, right around midnight. We were standing in the doorway, just staring at each other with small half-smiles. I leaned toward you the tiniest bit, and you surprised me by mirroring the movement. Our faces were still half a foot away when I panicked and pulled back. I said goodnight and stepped outside, away from you, and you closed the door behind me. I actually stayed there for a minute, leaning with my back against the door. I always imagined you did the same, though I know you most likely didn't.

I wish I had done it. I wish I had kissed you that night. People usually say that if they were given one wish, they would want a million dollars or a new house or something along those lines. I don't want any of that stuff. Money wouldn't do me any good, and neither would a house or car.

If I were given one wish, I would wish to go back in time to that moment. I wouldn't chicken out this time. I would kiss you and hold you close and never let you go, because I would know what I had to lose. I would confess everything, and I hope you would do the same. At least now I know you felt the same way.

I wonder if things would have turned out differently if I had taken more risks when it came to you. Would things be different if I had told you? Would you have still died in my arms? I'd like to imagine that you would have, but that we would be old and gray and married when that happened. Your death wouldn't have been nearly as violent as it was. You would have been surrounded by family and friends and everyone who cares about you. Or maybe it would be like the Notebook and we would have died in each other's arms as we slept.

I wonder if you would still be alive right now. Maybe you'd be sitting here beside me. Maybe we would be living together, or maybe you would just be visiting. Would Higgins have shot at me if I told you? Was your death my punishment for wasting so much time?

A lot of the time it feels like it is. Your death is already my fault, but it feels more like a punishment to me. Maybe I was supposed to tell you. Maybe I was supposed to kiss you but I wasted my chances, and so you had to go.

I can feel myself slipping back into that numb state of being again. For a while I thought that maybe I was on the verge of an emotional breakdown, and I would have welcomed that. It would have been the first time I'd showed anger or sadness since July. I could almost feel emotions again; they were just barely there, like words on the tip of your tongue. And now they're retreating again as the wounds are ripped open once more at your absence during the holiday season.

I hope that wherever you ended up, you're having a good time. Lord knows you're probably doing better than I am. Maybe you're with Shawn again, and as long as he's treating you right, I'm fine with that. Maybe you're getting to have the life you thought you would with him. The one I wish we could have had together.

I miss you.

Love you always

Mal


	6. Forgive Me

Dear Natara,

It's Christmas, again. My first Christmas without you. Another milestone. I'm sitting by my fireplace with a cup of eggnog, watching A Christmas Carol. The picture of you in Mexico is sitting next to me, and it's almost as if I've gone back in time.

It feels like the entire world is working against me. No matter what I do, someone manages to find a way to tear me down. I'm trying my best to get back to normal, but it never seems to be enough. Ken is always riding me about the letters. He found out about them when he caught me writing while I had some rare down time at the station. He says it's not healthy, and I agree completely. But I just can't stop. If I stop writing, that means I accept it. If I stop writing, I lose you forever.

One day, one incident, one shot in an alley robbed me not only of the woman I fell in love with, but of myself as well. That's the truth.

I don't know what I'm doing anymore. It feels like there's a hole in my chest where my heart used to be, and I'm not sure if that's good or bad. Whenever I look into Ken or Kai or Amy's eyes, I can see the disappointment in their gazes. Before, when I knew I had disappointed someone, I had felt such hatred for myself. Someone had been counting on me, and I had let them down. Now, though... now whenever I see their disappointment, I feel nothing.

I often fantasize about death. My death, to be exact. I imagine how I would die. A gunshot, like you. A car accident. Suicide. In my fantasies, my death is just as violent as yours, if not more. I never live to an old age in them and my death is never natural.

I imagine how people would react. Sure they would be sad, but would they really miss me? Now that I really think about it, I don't think they would. I haven't been the same since you died. I'm a ghost of the man I was. I died with you in that alley. I have no spirit left in me, no fight to keep me going. I'm just a waste of space. So, while I believe that they would be sorry that I had died, no one would really be torn up about the loss. Not like everyone was about you.

I'm lost without you, Natara. I look in the mirror in the morning and I wonder who's staring back at me. I don't recognize the man in the mirror anymore. He has my face and my hair and my clothes, but his eyes are empty. They show no emotion. He's a zombie, stumbling along as he tries to figure out what's going on around him. I hate him.

I'm seriously beginning to consider suicide. I'm not proud of it, but it's the only way that seems to make sense right now. I'm miserable, I disappoint everyone, I'm a waste of space, I'm useless, and there's no point in living anymore. Everyone's gone. My mother's gone. My father that I remember from my childhood is gone. Sandra's gone. Tasha's gone. You're gone. My spirit and will to live is gone.

So why not?

I know that you would be screaming at me if you were still alive. You would be furious with me, and you would probably punch me a few times too. You'd say to me, "Mal, have you misplaced your mind? What are you doing? Have you gone mad? This is all part of the healing process! This has nothing to do with me or you or anyone else. Don't you dare try anything, or I swear to God I'll kill you myself!"

But that's just it. You're not here to scream that at me, and that's the whole problem. That's the reason I'm considering it. Either way I disappoint people, and I'm going to Hell anyway.

I only ask that you forgive me. Please, forgive me for causing your death. For doing this.

Merry Christmas.

I'm sorry.

Love you always

Mal


	7. What Ifs

Dear Natara,

Happy New Year.

Love you always

Mal

* * *

><p>Dear Natara,<p>

I'm sorry I haven't written to you in so long. It's been almost a month and a half. I also apologize for the briefness of my last letter. I wasn't in a good place, and I'll admit that I was drunk at the time.

I'm still not where I'd like to be, but I'm in a much better place than where I was last time. I've started seeing a therapist, not that I'll admit it to anyone. It's definitely helping, at least a little bit. I didn't spend Valentine's Day like I did New Year's. On New Year's Eve I was alone and drunk in my apartment, staring at your photo. Valentine's Day I was still alone, but I wasn't consumed by grief and self-hatred.

I hadn't planned on writing to you. At least not yet, anyway. I only planned on writing to you when something huge happened. It's part of this plan my therapist and I have to sort of wean me off of writing to you. I think it's been working, but it's hard to say seeing as I've only gone for about a month and a half.

So why am I writing to you now, especially if I have a plan to stop? Well, that's a good question. I could say that it's because I miss you terribly, and it wouldn't be a lie. I do miss you. It's as if I'm missing a limb. There's a giant void you've left in my life, and nothing seems to be able to fill it. There's a feeling of emptiness that lingers where you used to be. I don't think I'll ever stop missing you. I do, however, believe that while the emptiness will never fully go away, it _will _ease with time.

I could say that I'm writing to you because it's just a force of habit. And that wouldn't be a lie either. It's been six months now that I've been writing to you. It's become second nature for me to want to tell you everything that happens in my life, as if that will somehow replace the life you never got to live. It's almost as if my mind and my body has adapted and gotten used to writing to you. It treats it like a necessary function, which is the main reason I need to stop.

But the real reason I'm writing to you is because Kai asked Amy out on Valentine's Day. And she said no.

Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't have said yes either if I were her. Kai's a nice guy, but he's just not right for her. For his sake, I hope that someday he finds the person that he is right for and doesn't make my mistakes. And Amy, too. I hope she finds her Mr. Perfect someday and doesn't take a single day with him for granted.

But I think the part that resonated with me the most was the fact that she didn't even stop to consider what he was asking. She answered him within a few seconds, telling him that she thought he was a great guy, but she didn't think it would be a good idea for them to go out. She didn't stop to consider the "what if"s.

What if he _was _her Mr. Perfect? (It's highly unlikely that he is, but you get my point.) What if she had just turned down the guy she was fated to be with? I don't know why that bothered me so much, especially since it was Kai. It shouldn't have stuck out to me. But it did. I couldn't help but think about all our What Ifs.

I'm trying not to dwell on them, because that's what sent me spiraling downward last time. I lingered on them, and they became my obsession. They would always be on my mind, no matter what I was supposed to be focusing on at the time. It was risky and extremely dangerous, but I couldn't help it. I couldn't make it through a single hour without thinking of another different scenario.

The only one I will dwell on is what if you had somehow survived the shot? I know for a fact that I wouldn't be as depressed as I am. But where would we be? Would I have told you after realizing how close I had come to losing you? Or would I have simply walked away, reasoning that it would hurt that much more if I did lose you.

Unfortunately those are questions no one can answer, and we won't get a chance to find out. I'd like to believe that I would have gathered up enough courage to confess everything, but I'm doubting myself. The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that I wouldn't have. I am only human, after all.

For now all I can really do is try to put the past behind me and move on with my life. It's going to be a long and steep climb up, but I'm slowly gaining faith in myself. It's like that song from that Santa Claus is Coming to Town movie we used to watch as kids. "You put one foot in front of the other."

If you look at the whole thing from where you are at the bottom, you'll never get there. You'll see the size of the mountain, and you'll get intimidated. You'll give up before you're even halfway through because you can't see the top. But if you look at it in smaller, manageable steps, you're more likely to succeed. Once you reach the top of that first chunk, you celebrate your victory and prepare yourself to face the next. And with each small victory, you gain a bit of your self-confidence back.

So that's how my life's going to be for a while. One baby step at a time. It's going to be a long journey, there's no doubt about that. I'm still far from the top of the mountain. But I think I can do it. I know you would be able to, and therefore so can I. I'll get there someday.

Love you always

Mal


	8. Torn

Dear Natara,

Captain Yeong stepped down today. She said it was so she would be able to spend more time with her family. In a way I guess I was glad to see her go, but not in the way people would assume if I said that out loud. What I mean is that I'm glad she realized how important her family is, and how much they need her. I swear, the love between her and Jennifer could rival mine for you, and their combined love for their daughter completely blows our love out of the water. So I'm glad she stepped down to be with them.

Ken was made Captain in her place. I'm happy for him, and it surprisingly doesn't bother me much that I'll have to answer to him now. I'm sure that later down the road I'll probably be fed up with him, but for now I'm glad he made captain instead of me. I don't think I'd be able to handle that pressure, not to mention the fact that I'm still fighting with my depression.

There are some days that just seem worse than others. Three days ago was one of the worst. Do you remember those fun houses we used to play in as kids? Do you remember how disorienting the were? You were so sure that the next turn was the right one, the one that would lead you back out to the real world, and then in the next second you would walk into a piece of glass. That's what my mind feels like.

Sometimes I feel so ready to open up, and then I just hit a brick wall. I choke and I can't find the words to describe what's going through my mind.

In the first few days after you died, my fury could only be compared to a wild fire. It was out of control and destroyed everything in its path. After we were told that the doctors had done everything they could, I went home and smashed every dish and every mug I had in my apartment. I broke my TV with a baseball bat, threw my computer across the room, and punched a hold in the wall. My new neighbors called the police with a noise complaint. When Bartaugh showed up to my apartment, I almost laughed at the expression on my neighbors' faces when he told them that I needed to do this.

Eventually my sorrow drowned out my fury, like water meeting fire. My fury gave was to my sorrow but it was still there, like embers glowing in the darkness. like embers, it looked harmless, until someone got too close to it and burned themselves.

But now? Now I'm not sure what to compare it to. It's not out of control, but nor can I control it. I don't know what to feel anymore. Three days ago I went home and it hit me that I didn't even know why I bothered. I don't know why I bother going to work, doing my job, or simply living. I don't have anything or anyone to live for. All my reasons for getting up in the morning and going on with my life died with you last July.

Ever since then I've been asking myself, what reason do I have to live? You would tell me that I had my work to live for, but you would be wrong. I go to work to give my mind something other than you to focus on. It's a nice distraction, and what's more, I enjoy it. I could even say I have fun most days. But then I get home and I'm faced with the cold truth. There's nothing left for me here.

I assure you that this is not me giving up. I'm not about to go put a gun in my mouth and pull the trigger, because that's not an option for me. It's the coward's way out, and I'm determined to prove, if only to myself, that I can get through this. This is, however, me confused.

I want to hold on to you, because letting you go means that we'll forever be separated. I want to keep your memory close because somewhere, deep down inside me, I still believe that if I hold it close enough, you'll somehow come back to me and we'll live happily ever after. I remember that for weeks afterwards my mind seemed to reject the fact that you had died. I kept looking for you, and when you didn't come back I started looking for signs that you would come back somehow.

I want to hold on to your memory, but I also recognize the necessity to let go. If I never let go of you, I'm never going to reach the summit of the mountain. I want to get there so bad, but in order to do that I have to set you free. And I'm not sure if I can do that.

I'm torn, Natara. I'm torn in a thousand different ways and I only wish that you could tell me what to do.

Although I suppose if you could tell me what to do, I wouldn't be like this in the first place.

Love you always

Mal


	9. Paper Cranes

Dear Natara,

Her name was Zoe King. She was a thirty-two year old caucasian bus driver. She had dark blonde hair and stunningly blue eyes and a bloody gash just above her heart.

His name was James Yates. He was also thirty-two years old and caucasian, but he was a elementary school principal. He had black hair and brown eyes and a bullet hole right between his eyes.

What could these two possibly have in common, you ask? Well for one, they were both found in dumpsters on school grounds within two weeks of each other. The second thing they had in common was that they had a tiny paper crane placed in their left hands.

No one knows what to think. They both had occupations relating to a school, but no one can figure out any other connection. We're going crazy trying to figure out who did this, but so far we've gotten nowhere. All the leads are dead ends and there's no DNA. There aren't enough muders for this to be classified as a serial killer, but I think it's pretty clear that we're dealing with one.

I know that if you were here, you'd have no problem finding a connection and figuring out who could have done this to other people. It would have only taken you a few days to catch this guy.

Ken's going crazy, trying to organize the force and keep the city from panicking. Yet another of the many reasons I'm glad I'm not captain. I'm the head detective on this case, but I feel completely inadequate compared to what you could have done.

I know it's crazy, but I'm trying to channel you as I work on this. I'm trying to imagine what you would do if you could get inside this person's head. Clearly there has to be ome connection. I remember you saying multiple times that there's always a connection, that no one just kills people randomly.

You were always so much better at this than me.

I still miss you a lot. There are still days when I don't want to do anything but lie in bed with the covers pulled up over my head. Some days I want nothing more than to curl up in a ball and sob. Granted, those days are becoming less and less frequent, but they still exist.

I've got to go. Ken wants me to look into a new lead we just got on this case, and I probably shouldn't even be writing right now anyway. But then again when have I ever cared about professionalism?

Oh, before I forget, Amy and Kai are dating, now. She finally got fed up with Kai pestering her about it, so she agreed to go on one date with him and it sort of just grew from there. I'll be the first to admit that I was wary of her decision, but it's working out so far. Kai's being really sweet to her, and you can tell that she loves it. (Not that she'll admit it out loud, but I'm working on that.)

Love you always

Mal

* * *

><p><em>I apologize for the shortness of this chapter. I just really want to get to the last few chapters cause I already planned, like, all of them out.<em>


	10. I Miss You

Dear Natara,

There have been four more murders, one for each week. Each of them were either shot or stabbed and placed in a dumpster on school grounds. They all had a paper crane in their left hands. Two were teachers at the local middle school. One was a bus driver. One was an elementary school prinicpal. One was a social worker for the middle school. One was a Special Ed teacher.

No one knows what the hell is going on. The only connection we can find is that they all had occupations relating to a school. Add to that all the other homocides the station usually deals with, and just imagine the chaos. Ken's doing his best to keep things under control, but that's a difficult job to do when there's a psychopath serial killer on the loose.

There's still no new leads, no new evidence. We're not sure how we haven't found any DNA on the bodies or anywhere else on the crime scene. We've followed every lead, looked under every stone, and still nothing on this guy.

I'm not too sure what writing to you will accomplish. I know that you can't just pop out of nowhere and tell me where to look. I'm useless as far as profiling goes, as is everyone else investigating this case. Everyone's only able to sit around and scratch their heads while some guy continues to murder innocent people.

Sometimes I think God is selfish. I don't understand why he took you from us. I get that everyone has to die, some sooner than others. My mom told me when I was little that God takes people once they've completed their purpose in life. Only I can't figure out what purpose you completed.

There are still killers roaming free, and none of us can get in their heads like you could. We can't figure out who this guy is, or why he's killing people. We have a tentative profile, but it's nothing like the things you used to come up with.

So why would God take you if there were still murderers?

I hate the fact that you're not here to help me. I'm so used to being able to turn to you for help, and now that's not an option. Everytime I want to ask you a question and then remember that you're not there, my heart clenches. I'm torn between anger and sorrow every single time.

And you may be saying, "Well, that's great, Mal! You're feeling emotions again. It means you're healing, and isn't that what you wanted?" And it is what I want. But sometimes I'm not so sure I want to feel the emotions. Part of me wants to go back to the time when I couldn't feel anything, because it wasn't as uncomfortable as the things I feel now.

In other news, Amy and Kai are still going strong. to be honest, I'm a little jealous of them. I didn't know you could miss a possibility for the future so much.

I walked in on them once, in the conference room. I had gone back to retrieve a file I had left on the table, only to stop short and let out a shocked yell as soon as I stepped into the room. They were locked in an embrace, kissing each other tenderly. The three of us were beyond embarasses and tried to laugh it off.

I watch them a lot. I see them holding hands, or watch Amy blush when Kai brushes his hand against her cheek. They're inseparable. I see them like that every day, and I miss you so much it hurts. I wish that it could be us holding hands or stealing kisses in the conference room.

I guess the bottom line is that I miss you. I want you back, even though I know that's impossible. I want to be able to hold you and know that you're safe and alive. But as much as it pains me to acknowledge, you're dead. You'll never laugh or run or creep people out by getting in their heads ever again, and I hate it.

I dont think the plan my therapist and I came up with is working too well.

Love you always

Mal


	11. I'll See You Later

**Okay before I start this chapter, I just wanted to say that I bought the short stories collection for CoD and let me tell you, it has a plethora of Mal/Natara moments. It's crazy. Also Natara started a fire in one of the short stories by rubbing two sticks together, and it reminded me of the time three years ago when someone tried that in my study hall and the teacher didn't say a thing.**

**Yup, that's about it.**

* * *

><p>Dear Natara,<p>

We got the guy. Or, rather, girl. Turns out the killer was Jenny Hull, mother of three. Her eldset son, Jacob, was autistic and was often bullied because of it. He comitted suicide a few months ago, and when his mother found out that the school had done nothing about the bullying, she went on a murdrous rampage. Literally. She placed paper cranes in their hands because apparently Jacob loved them.

A few more milestones have passed. It's been nearly a year since your death, and that's pretty much a milestone in and of itself. The Hull case was my first major case without you, and I felt so strange when I realized that. I was proud of myself in a way, but it also made me miss you terribly. Also, I turned thirty-eight, and you weren't here to celebrate my birthday with me. Not that I enjoy celebrating birthdays, but you made it special, somehow. The magic was gone, this year. It wasn't special anymore.

I think the biggest milestone for me, though, was when I came to the realization that I don't feel you around me anymore.

There were times, especially in the first few weeks after your death, when I was so sure that if I reached out I would be able to touch you. That you would be there. It was as if I could feel your spirit hovering near me, urging me to continue on with my life. I could feel your presence all around me. I would turn suddenly, certain that I had heard you call out to me. Sometimes I could hear your laugh so clearly right next to my ear that I would bristle, so sure that you were laughing at me again.

But I can't hear your laugh or see your smile, and your face isn't the first thing I see when I wake up in the morning. I can't quite recall the sound of your voice or the way your hair would fall. If I close my eyes and try to bring up a memory of what you looked like, the image is blurry and distant.

You're not here anymore. You've disappeared. I no longer feel the need to chase after your presence or hold your memory close. And I don't know whether that should scare me or make me elated.

I still miss you. I don't think I'll ever stop missing you, not completely. You left behind a crater-sized hole in my life, and it's going to take much more than a year to fill it back up. But I'm doing better than I was. The pain of losing you isn't so sharp anymore. It was sharp and blinding at first, a white hot agony. Now it's a dull, slow ache that burns deep inside me. It's not the kind of wound that will ever fully heal, sort of like people who injure their knees. They live the rest of their lives with a bad knee.

This is going to be my last letter to you. I hope you understand, but I don't feel like writing to you is doing me any good anymore. It was therapeutic at first, there's no denying that. Writing letters to you helped me adjust to a life without you at my own pace, and probably helped me accept it a lot faster than I would have otherwise.

I'm not so sure I believe in Heaven anymore, but I do believe in us. I know when my time comes (whenever that may be) that wherever I end up, you'll be there waiting for me. I'll finally be able to tell you properly that I love you, and hopefully I'll be able to hear you say it back.

I wrote a proposal once, just for giggles. To you, when you were still alive. I remember I wrote _One day, when we're old and gray, I want your face to be the last thing I see. _I know I can't have that now, and that's not anyone's fault but Kale Higgins. I'm just hoping that your face can be the first thing I see instead, whenever we meet again.

I miss being able to talk to you. But these letters aren't us talking. It's me talking to a memory of the woman I fell in love with. It doesn't make sense. The end of these letters is an ending as well as a beginning. It's the end of us in a way, at least for now. But it also marks the start of a new era. I can finally begin to move past what happened.

I love you, Natara, more than you'll ever know. I've said it before in these letters, and I will never stop saying it to you in my heart and in my mind. My love for you will never lessen, I don't doubt that. How could it? I'm not a mixture. I'm a compound, an irreversible reaction. I can't go back, and I don't want to.

When I was a little boy, my father once told me never to say, "Goodbye." Instead, you should always say, "I'll see you later."

So, Natara Williams, this is not a goodbye. At least not forever. This is me saying that I'll see you later. I don't know how much later, but I promise we'll see each other again someday.

I will love and miss you always

Mal


	12. That Famous Happy Ending

Dear Natara,

I'm really sorry if this letter seems kind of awkward, but I'm not too sure what to write. It's been three years since the last letter to you, and so much has happened during that time. So many people have gotten married, had kids or retired. So much has changed since your death, and it's a little overwhelming when I take a step back and look at it from a distance. But that's not the real reason I'm writing to you now.

Mal died three days ago.

No one knew he was sick for the longest time. Ken knew, of course, but by the time the rest of us found out, he was already dying. We'd all begun to become suspicious when he wouldn't show up to work for a week and then return looking like he had been through Hell and back.

He brushed our questions off and told us not to worry about it. I was convinced that he was off doing something stupid, but it turns out he was getting treatment.

He changed after that. He wasn't himself. He did his best to act as if nothing had changed, but I could see right past it. We all could. We could tell that something wasn't right, that he was worried and stressed. He never breathed a word about it, until he knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was a lost cause.

He didn't give up, Natara. I hope that you know that, somehow. He knew he was dying, but he didn't curl up in a corner and want everyone to feel sorry for him. Actually, he seemed to do the exact opposite. He threatened to shoot us if we even looked at him sympathetically. Granted, he said it in a joking manner, but I don't doubt for a second that he had contemplated shooting Officer Willis when she asked him how he was feeling.

I made sure that he was buried next to you. He never specified what he wanted, but I don't think he would mind the current arrangements. He truly loved you, Natara. We read all of his old letters. He handed them to Ken and told him that he could do whatever he wanted with them. After Mal died, Ken let us read them. Kai cried, not that he'll admit it to anyone but me.

He was happy, in the end. He knew he was going to meet you, wherever you ended up. He knew that he was going to be able tos ee you again. For both of your sakes, I hope that yours was the first face he saw. I hope you were waiting for him. I hope that you're living the life that you never got to have with him here on earth.

He was wrong, by the way. Tell him that for me. He said he didn't think anyone would miss him if he died, but he was dead wrong. So many people look lost without him. Ken confessed to me that he wasn't sure what to do, now that his best friend had died. He said he finally understood to an extent how Mal felt when you died.

I'm glad that his pain is over now, though. I watched him exist in the years after your death. He was never the same again, but he got pretty close.

Tell him that we all will miss him, but that we'll be alright. Tell him that we understand. Tell him that I know he's happy, now that he's got you again. I hope he got to hear you tell him that you love him. Take care of each other. Maybe we'll see each other again someday.

Amy

* * *

><p><em>-Ducks and hides from angry mob-<em>

_Please don't kill me. Pretty please? With a puppy on top?_

_I had to do it. A certain someone begged me to post this, and I'm not talking about plot bunnie *COUGH COUGH*_

_I'm just kidding. She's a great person and is actually the one who got me to update so often. Something about an aluminum baseball bat...? Whaaaaat?_


End file.
